Like Shadows or Ghosts
by petalpusher
Summary: After the events of the war a despondant George closed himself off from the world. He wanted to be alone. So why was Lee standing on his door step, freezing cold and willing himself not to run away again?


Lee Jordan pulled his coat tighter around him, the harsh cold whipping relentlessly at his face as he trudged down the nearly abandoned street of Diagon Alley. Most of the shops were closed, but his eye was drawn to one in particular, a building that looked nearly abandoned. Though a sign displaying store hours hung halfheartedly from the window, there was an altogether ramshackle look about the place, as if it was just waiting to be boarded up and shut down for good. He had not realized until then how long it had been since he had been there last, standing outside of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

'Too long,' Lee thought, as he stopped in front of the shop. There was no trace left of the cheerful air it used to give off.

Willing himself not to turn around - it had been too long, far too long, he kept reminding himself- he brought his fist up and knocked on the door, three determined, sharp raps of his knuckles. A long moment passed, where Lee's mind flitted from relief to shame to worry and back again, a most unpleasant circle. It had been a bad idea to walk and not apparate, it was too cold, and he had too much time to think about this, now; he should just turn around. Was it too late to?

As if to free him from this torture, the door creaked open rather ominously. As it opened, the bell hanging above the door chimed, the familiar tinkling sound of 'we've got another customer', and a bell had never sounded so wrong, so out of place, before.

George was staring down at him, his mouth set in a grim line. He didn't look surprised or happy to see him, merely willing to accept that he was there. Lee barely had time to study him - he had never seen a Weasley look so grim, not since the proper funeral, and he was hoping he had imagined it then, the vacant look of George's eyes and the unnerving way in which he still, sometimes, tried to smile. But now, staring up at George, he had looked long enough, long enough to see Fred staring back at him for a moment too long, long enough to make him want to go running back into the cold, dark night, because he wasn't ready for this, he couldn't handle this, it was too soon, what the hell was he trying to prove, coming here-

Making a brief sound of acknowledgement, George cocked his head sharply before turning on his heel. Lee was meant to follow him. He stood there in the cold a moment longer, a moment too long, because George stopped and turned back to face him. He looked irritable, and the expression didn't seem to fit his features quite right, no, not at all; it was like a mask that didn't quite cover all of the important places on his face.

"Funny, I don't expect you came here to sneak a glance at me. Or did you just come to be able to say you tried? Maybe hoping I wouldn't answer. Is it you, Lee, who's been knocking at my door and running," George trailed off, and he seemed to be talking to himself.

Lee opened his mouth, then closed it again when he saw the expectant look George was giving him. He had no idea what George was talking about; for the longest time he had avoided Diagon Alley like it was plague ridden. He shook his head and said nothing. It was just as well though, because he didn't think he had any words just then.

"Shut the door or leave through it. Your choice, mate," George said dryly.

Without a word, Lee grasped the sweating door handle and brought it towards him, closing the door as quietly as he could, though he didn't know why he felt the need to be as silent as possible. Somehow walking inside had the feel of entering a library, and the realization left him feeling unsettled. It used to be there was nothing quiet or the least bit subdued about a Weasley, especially not this Weasley in particular, not a twin (but, what do you call one twin? It's like a bad joke, the answer 'really fuckin sad.'). He felt like it was entering a place he had never been before, which was silly, because he used to come here all the time.

Used to, he reminded himself. It had just been a while, is all.

He followed silently as George led the way through the shop, past the sad looking shelves (they were almost empty, and looked as though they had not been properly cared for; dust and dirt building up like it was) and to a door in the very back. George opened it, and Lee could make out a staircase over George's broad shoulder. He took the steps by twos, and Lee followed, this time making sure to close the door behind him.

The staircase led to what appeared to be a one bedroom apartment, with a raised platform where a small kitchenette was. A kettle sat lonely on the stove. In the corner was a bed that looked largely unused as of late, and off to the side a ratty old couch and overstuffed armchair sat, the very picture of squalor. There was a horrendously colored quilt thrown over the cushions, as if someone had been sleeping there, or lying there attempting to, at least. A coffee table housed a cup of tea and a stack of old newspapers. His eyes were drawn to the one large window; the curtains were not closed, and through the frosted glass he could make out the sky. It was proving to be a rather cloudy night; snow was starting to fall delicately outside, the flakes drifting past the window like twinkling, curious onlookers.

Lee's eyes found the one bed again. Where had Fred slept, he wondered? Or had George gotten rid of all of his things, unable to endure the pain of reminders?

George offered no explanations, only walked into the kitchen. He held up the kettle.

"Tea?" he asked. His voice... There was something wrong about it, something altogether not the same, and Lee realized then what bothered him about this new George most of all: it was the way in which he spoke. Where his voice had once held the ever present hint of laughter, there was now none. A stranger's voice came out from between his lips now, and it disturbed Lee. Which was funny, as he was not nearly as bothered by George's shabby appearance, looking admittedly worse for wear; barefoot and unshaven, in his dirty, wrinkled slacks and ratty sweater- which he now realized was homemade, and sporting a rather large F stitched across the front...

The sight of it, now, pulled at Lee's heartstrings in the most uncomfortable way, as if a hand had somehow reached inside of his chest and decided to see how hard it could pull before something came loose.

Unable to find his voice, Lee just shook his head. He was becoming steadily aware that he was still wearing his coat, but didn't feel comfortable enough to take it off. George, having put down the tea kettle, was looking at him with a sort of mildly amused expectance that made Lee squirm.

"So," Lee started, pawing around for something, anything really, to say. "How's.." He looked around, and his eyes caught a stack of boxes underneath the window, all marked with the company name. "How's the business?"

It was until the words were out of his mouth that Lee realized what a mistake he had made. Who brings up work when going to visit the grieving?

George did not seem bothered by this, though. Quite the contrary, he continued to look mildly amused, if darkly so. "Fine. I've had Verity taking care of most things for a while now." He said, and, as if remembering something, moved closer to Lee. "What a horrible host I'm being. I haven't even taken your coat."

George approached him, and Lee felt as if wanting to keep his coat on was not an option, so determined did George look. Hurriedly and eager to be compliant, he shrugged it off and put it into George's waiting arms, who walked past him to hang the heavy coat onto an almost bare rack Lee had spied near the door.

Lee stood there awkwardly, rocking on the balls of his feet and rubbing his hands together; in truth, they were already quite warm, but he needed something to do with them, less he stick them in his pockets and mistakenly looked bored, or worse, reach out and try to grab someone who was not there, be it George or Fred or anyone else who were worlds away right now.

"So very rude of me," George continued, sounding so unlike himself as he gestured for Lee to take a seat. He did, moving the quilt aside and settling down onto the sofa, the seat cushions warm and cementing his earlier suspicions that someone - George, namely - had been sleeping there.

"What would my mother say," George muttered, taking a seat in the armchair that was adjacent to the couch, so that it almost appeared as if he were about to interview Lee for the most depressing, bleak talk show in existence, what with the filthy coffee table and the heavy feeling of grief in the air. Lee was grateful for the conversation starter, though. Yet, his mind sped onward; since when did he need conversation starters with George, with whom he used to be able to spend a good half hour discussing the benefits of having the rare yet wildly coveted ability to projectile vomit at will. But that was not the same George as the man seated next to him. He shook his head, and willed the thought to be shaken from his mind as well.

"Speaking of, your mother sends her love."

"Did she send you here?" asked George sharply, so pointedly, in fact, that it startled Lee into looking up from the particularly interesting coffee stain he had been studying, which bore an uncanny resemblance to Viktor Krum.

"What? No," he said quickly, and was glad that it was not a lie, because he had a feeling George would have been able to tell. George seemed to visibly relax; apparently assuming rightly that Lee was, in fact, telling the truth.

A heavy silence settled over them, as chilly as the blanket of snow that was steadily growing outside. Lee hadn't the faintest idea of what to say, and George didn't even appear to be trying to think of anything to fill the silence; he sat on the armchair, merely glancing disinterestedly about the room, as if he did not look at it every day, as if the coffee stains and old newspapers were all of the sudden brand new. The thought of George not caring, of not even trying to make this any easier for him, inexplicably annoyed Lee, enough so that it startled unfiltered, unchecked words right out of his mouth.

"Harry and Perce told me what happened, that night. I imagine it was quick. They-" -and his voice caught there, and he had to clear his throat to get his mouth to function proper again- "they said he was happy at the time. Said he was laughing, that he looked almost happy, Fred did-"

"He wasn't happy," George said, his voice again adopting that razor sharpness that felt as if it could cut right across Lee's skin if he let it, if he didn't move back soon enough. He resisted the urge to press his back into the yielding softness of the couch, and instead listened as George continued, almost angrily, and no doubt bitterly. "He can't've been. Wouldn't've been, not if he knew he was leaving-"

And the sentence ended there, though Lee knew that that was not where it was meant to cut off.

_Leaving me._

The unspoken words seemed to hang heavy between them, now made stronger simply for being left unsaid. It was then that Lee saw a flicker of something pass by George's unguarded face- because George had dropped all pretense of nonchalance the moment Fred's name had been spoken- that made him wish, truly wish, to clutch the damn words right out of the air and shove them back into his mouth where they belonged, unspoken and definitely not able to hurt, not able to come out the wrong way, because there was no way he had ever meant to suggest, not even for a minute, that Fred had wanted to be rid of anyone, least of all-

"George, I didn't-"

"Let's not talk about him," George said, in a calm voice that was obviously struggling to stay that way. His hands were fisting at the knees of his pants, where his eyes were aimed. Lee could not make them out in the dim light, but hoped to God they were not shimmering, because he knew for a fact that he would not be able to handle that, not here, not now. He couldn't imagine a time or place where he would be.

George's voice had seemed to falter, only hints of the strength it had previously possessed lingering at the edges of his words like shadows or ghosts. It sounded almost like a question, and yet there was something about the way that it was said that made Lee certain that the last thing he wanted to do was argue the point, to push George talking about anything he absolutely did not want to discuss.

So why then, was he here? That was why he had come, wasn't it? To attempt to talk to George, to do something that no one else had succeeded at before him? (But that made it sound like he had selfish intent - to achieve where others failed - and that was certainly not the case.) Perhaps provide some well-needed comfort for a friend, and perhaps, perhaps in return receive a bit for himself?

He looked over at George, and knew then that there was no way that was happening. He could see the tensed muscles of his lower jaw, the way his knuckles were turning white, and knew that if he were even to say the name it would have unfavorable results, whether they be physically violent or frightening in an altogether different way. He didn't want to find out.

He couldn't ignore the anguish radiating from George, though, as if the pain were made fresh again from the mere memory. He wanted to make it better, or at least try. He wanted to help. It hurt to see George like this, as he had never seen his best friend (one of his best friends..) before. He wanted to touch him, to comfort him in a way that only shared human body heat could. He raised his arm, but hesitated. Was it really a good idea? He wasn't sure what he was afraid of happening; maybe George physically striking him? Or worse, doing nothing at all?

He shook his head, trying to get rid of his uncertainty. He had never been afraid to touch George - whether it be a friendly pat on the back or a disgustingly emotional hug brought about overdramatically for laughs- and he would not start now. Too many things had changed, but he would not let this -the air between them- morph into something unrecognizable and foreign as well.

Steeling himself, he got up from the couch and moved to kneel in front of George. George did not look up at him, his shaggy red hair hiding his eyes, and most of his face -it had grown so long - from view. But his shoulders were not shaking. That was good. That meant that he was not crying. That meant that Lee wouldn't start too.

Did George even know he was here, kneeling in front of him right now? If not, Lee was about to make damn sure. It didn't matter that George had gone away right now, off to visit some dark place in his head that only he knew the details of. And if he wanted to be alone, well.. The time for that had passed, as far as Lee was concerned. He had kept his distance for so long now, out of respect for George's wishes to be by himself, with Lee's own unspoken fear to approach him mingling in like a drop of poison to clean water. It was time George realized that he was not alone, whether he wanted to acknowledge the truth of it or not.

Determinedly, Lee reached up with one hand and grasped George's forearm. He could feel the muscles pulled so tight there, as if George was lifting weights and not just sitting there with a friend. He squeezed, but not too hard, just enough to alert George to his presence if he wasn't already. His skin jumped a fraction, and he exhaled loudly, slowly.

"I fuckin' miss him, Lee," George said, quietly, not exactly to Lee but not to the empty air either. Lee could hear the tears in his voice, did not need to see them to know that they were there, or at least well on their way.

"I know," Lee said, just as quietly, as if this conversation was a clandestine affair. They could've been back at Hogwarts, just then, plotting and planning spectacular stunts, their voices so low and heads so close together. They could've been, had there been any excitement in their words. "I know," Lee said again. He didn't know what else to say, and he supposed that those words were the truest that could've ever left his lips anyway.

"The bastard," George said, voice almost tender as he talked about Fred. He looked up at George then, and Lee was not surprised at the tears he saw there, or the perpetuality with which they seemed to slide down his face. He was, after all, no stranger to grief and the unexpected times it would strike you, and the even more unexpectedness of finding that you simply did not have the strength to keep fighting it down, like it was merely sick rising up from your stomach and not immeasurable pain that was gnawing at your innards, desperate to escape.

"I know," Lee said again, because again it was true. If his own eyes had grown hot, he did not notice, or at least chose not to. All he was aware of right then was George. Never in the entire war or after had he felt as useful as he did then, kneeling there on knees that were starting to ache, waiting for George to speak, to finally take off some of that pain and let another carry it. Lee did not know what it felt like to live your whole life as two, and then to suddenly be severed down to one. He did not like to think about what that felt like, or that whatever it felt like, George would know for sure.

"I knew it was a possibility, but... I never expected. It just didn't seem real... It wasn't real," George said, as if he was searching for the right words, and Lee could tell by the way that he spoke that he was the first to hear such words coming from George's mouth. He felt neither honored nor burdened, just... strangely helpless. Here he was, watching a man - no, not just a man, but George, he was watching George drown and he had sinking so far down for so long. And where had Lee been? It didn't matter, the location immaterial because it wasn't here, he had not been here, not until now, when the worst of it was over. Lee felt a pang of self loathing. What would Fred say? How queer it was, to not just be able to go and ask him.

"It still isn't," said Lee quietly, without thinking about what he was saying.

"I know," George said, mocking Lee's somber tone from earlier. George's face seemed to adopt a bit of his old self again, and the ghost of a smile played at the corner of his lips, a secret that had to be coaxed out of hiding. Lee wanted nothing more than to be the one to do so; right then, George, he didn't look like Fred at all, see, and so it didn't hurt to look at him head on, not like it did before. He didn't know what had changed, just that right then George was George, and no one else.

And George needed him, whether he was coming right out and saying so or not; whether he even knew it or not.

Lee brought up his other hand, making a decision without really proclaiming inside of his head that he was doing so, and rested it over George's now considerably relaxed fist. George didn't look at him then, just brought up a hand and gripped Lee's shoulder, meeting him halfway at the touch that they were both gravitating towards the moment Lee had appeared on George's door step.

When Lee kissed him, he did not taste at all like Fred.

There was no electricity, either, when their lips met - for that is a sensation saved solely for first kisses and surprise ones, and this was neither. Merely, it felt a great relief to be able to attempt to sink inside of another person, to lose yourself in feelings and skin and body heat that were not your own.

George moved both of his hands to either side of Lee's neck, and it almost physically hurt, the desperation rolling off of George in all-consuming waves. George kissed Lee's mouth in earnest, biting and tugging at his lower lip questioningly. Lee moved closer between George's legs, moving his hands to George's hips, content for now just to try and hold on. The sadness seemed to slip out of him now, with every breath they stole from in between each other's mouths, but George seemed to only intensify with every second that passed so slowly. He needed something, and Lee planned to do everything in his power to deliver now, if not then, back when he walked away from the very back of a funeral, slipped out like a shadow, a cowardly visitor-

-but he was here now. That had to count for something. He gripped George's hips tighter, and George moaned softly against his lips. But Lee caught the word that was hiding underneath the sound, breathed out like a sigh:

_Please._

Lee, with a desperate sound he was not ashamed of, seemed to start over. If before he was gentle for fear of hurting George, now he was aiming for it. He kissed underneath his chin, dragging his lips along a tightened jaw. He kissed at his cheek, burying his face in the scruff that was growing there - George was not shaving as often now, and his cheek felt rough underneath Lee's lips, against his tongue, but not unpleasantly so. He bit harshly at George's neck, tongue swiping at the place where his pulse beat, repeatedly, as if to make sure it wasn't going anywhere. Beneath him George's breath was quick, and his nails dug into the back of Lee's neck. It hurt, but it was not in the bad way that death and loss hurt.

Lee began to trail kisses up George's neck, not the least bit disconcerted by the area where his ear used to be. This seemed to ignite George even more, who pulled Lee closer so roughly that he almost lost his balance. Perhaps Fred had not been put off by it either... The thought sent Lee's insides contracting again, an unpleasant sensation much like trying to apparate into a brick wall or a place that did not exist. He tried to force himself to squash all thought of Fred for now, to focus on nothing but the feel of George's skin against his, the sound of heavy breathing so loud in the empty room that it might've echoed, to feel nothing but George's desperate hardness against him, to perhaps bring a hand down and pay attention to his own..

But the idea was downright laughable. This was all about Fred. But that wasn't a bad thing, only the truth.

George's lips found his again, and Lee pulled away briefly, though George kept their faces close together. Lee rested his lips against George's cheek, trying to catch his breath.

"Bed?" he murmured, loving the feel of George's stubble against his lips. He kissed it, weakly.

"No," George said quickly and a little too loudly, and he sounded almost scared somewhere in that one word.

And then Lee caught on, and he could've slapped himself. Of course not the bed, you idiot. And it dawned on him again, the one bed (because there was never another); more importantly, the one empty, perpetually empty, as in no-one-had-slept-there-in-a-very-long-time-bed, Jordan, you prat.

They froze there, breathing hard, faces close, Lee's mouth still pressed to stubble and Lee came very near to coming to his senses, perhaps to take a moment and actually think about this first. George tugged at him, and brought his face close so that they were staring at each other. He kissed him lightly, not hesitantly, only a little slower now.

"Couch," he said, voice hoarse and wobbly at the knees - as voices can sometimes get nervous, the same way people can. One look at George's face, every part of him open and unguarded, and all rational thought was stolen from Lee. It was as if a slate was wiped clean, all doubt gone somewhere where it wouldn't hinder him now.

He nodded, and George pulled him onto the couch, Lee's body resting on top of his own. George's hands slid under the hem of Lee's shirt, touching the skin there in the way that one touches when they simply want to feel something there. It damn near broke Lee's heart all over again, and to distract himself from that nagging feeling that is empathy - or worse, understanding - he kissed George again, as harshly as he dared. It was not him who would set the pace tonight.

He pulled off the sweater George was wearing - tried not to smell Fred there - and took great care in placing it gently on the floor. Beneath him George's bare chest was heaving, rising and falling so quickly against the hand Lee placed flat there. Though he didn't look it, George gave the impression of someone scared, of what Lee didn't know or want to think about. He lifted his hand and placed his mouth there instead, wanting to kiss all of the freckles there, wondering if there would be time enough to do so before one of both of them regained their sanity and ran the other way.

This wasn't right. But, it was, but just for now? Lee's disjointed thoughts whirled around in his head, and he tried to press them down. He pressed his body against George, whose hands found his back and held on there, and Lee, the living, breathing anchor, let him.

"Show me that you're here," George said, so quietly that Lee might not have heard him if his mouth was not so tantalizingly close to his ear. He sounded almost embarrassed, and Lee knew then exactly what George was asking of him. He shivered, not at the feel of warmth breath ghosting past his ear, but at the words themselves.

And then he did.


End file.
